


Scent

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, F/M, Perfume, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6921238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A memory, bergamot, a cedarwood base.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/gifts).



He’d gone upstairs earlier than usual, before the blue of evening turned to night. Hale and Hastings were still sitting in the unofficial officers’ dining room, nursing cups of coffee in mismatched china. How Hastings could bear to listen to Hale hold forth, Jed was not quite sure but they had a curious bond and the more time they spent together, the more it strengthened. To him, it seemed like a noose but they appeared contented. Occasionally Hastings’s expression turned contemplative and tender and Jed reminded himself of all the horrors she’d seen.

It was quiet on the third floor or he wouldn’t have heard her. Mary’s room was at the far end of the hallway; it was the smallest but he saw why Matron had given it to her—she complained the least. He’d only had glimpses inside before. The walls were white and there were two, perhaps three windows. The floor was bare of even a rag rug. He couldn’t say exactly what the sound had been to draw his attention, but as he got closer to the room, his hand already forming into the fist to knock with, he suddenly thought of ballrooms. In Baltimore, the women had been favoring very wide skirts the color of jewels; there was nothing pale, nothing shimmering, except the light on the hair of the blondest women, the occasional white-mustaschioed old Colonel. There had been greater variety when he was in Paris; the women had glinted and shone, some had dressed in velvet so dark it was like they were night itself and they wisely wore diamonds and faceted aquamarines to suggest stars. He knocked, uncertain, still half in another time, listening for the violins to start again. There was a sound he decided was welcome and he opened the door.

Mary was on the floor. Her drab skirts were spread around her and the fading light had turned her lace collar and cuffs grey; there was color in her cheeks and a dark red ribbon tied her snood. She was crying, not prettily as Eliza would have, but with abandon. There was a purity to her tears as with everything she undertook. He grasped why he had thought of parties, the gilt harp like the bow of a ship—the room was fragrant, overwhelmingly, of scent, the scent an elegant woman would wear every day. It was a scent Mary might only wear once or twice a year. He smelled verbena, bergamot and then lavender. There was a small puddle on the floor before Mary and the shards of the cut-glass bottle. He didn’t see any blood.

He also went to his knees and she looked at him. The tears streaked her face and made thickets of her eyelashes. He asked, “Oh Mary, what has happened?”

“I broke it,” she said. He waited but she didn’t seem to want to say more.

“I think I see… are you hurt? Have you cut your hand?” he tried.

“No, I haven’t cut anything, It’s only, this was the last of it. I wasn’t even going to put any on tonight, I only wanted to smell it a moment and now it is all gone, and not even as I have ever smelled it before,” she replied.

“What is it?” he asked. She seemed more willing to speak and the tears had stopped.

“Just a little bottle of eau de cologne Imperiale. Gustav had given this to me, I saved it, it was so dear,” she said. It was the Empress Josephine’s scent, a luxury for a poor chemist and his wife.

“Shall I help you clean it up? Open the windows? I hardly think you will be able to sleep like this,” he offered. He saw her collect herself and he wished, how he wished he had been able to do something more before she had had to make the effort alone.

“No, I can manage. It is hardly a great catastrophe, only I liked to have it. I expect I shall forget soon enough,” she said, starting to rise. He joined her, hazarded a hand on her forearm to assist her? Himself? But she did not demur. He wondered what she should do if he put a hand on her waist, on her damp cheek, if he drew her towards him as in a waltz, an embrace unashamed.

“Let me call for an orderly then, I don’t want you to cut your hand and it is too late for you to scrub a floor,” he said. She looked at him and he saw the tears had unleashed some part of her he rarely saw. He must be very gentle now and not take advantage.

“All right, I suppose it would be all right.” She went to brush a tendril of hair from her face and the scent was intense on her fingers, spoke of starlight and lovers, Champagne and the golden shadows that caught in the notch of her throat. He shifted, wanting to step forward, knowing he must step back. She looked at him again, bare of artifice. He thought the scent would not be the same when she had it again, when she opened the bottle on her next birthday, the handwritten label unsigned; then it would not mean only the past and affection, but the War and desire and a hopeless hope.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my offering for "scent" as a prompt. Eau de Cologne Imperiale by Guerlain is still being made today. What is more romantic than perfume and a ballroom?


End file.
